


Amber

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bed Warming, Ficlet, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meludir’s new allotment in life is King Thranduil’s bed warmer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amber

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He was never much good at archery.

Not by Tauriel’s standards, anyway. She and the prince could loose an arrow on the east side of the forest and kill a spider on the west, while Meludir must see what he’s shooting and takes at least a split-second to aim. He understands this and wasn’t particularly disappointed when he was reassigned. He imagined positions more suited for his lilting nature—perhaps a cook, or a musician, or even a dancer. 

When he was presented to his king for reassignment, the job that slipped from Thranduil’s tongue _shocked_ him. Meludir was sure that he’d heard wrong, but then the king repeated it and asked if he would be interested, and Meludir nearly bent double, groveling with his acceptance and gratitude. 

He’s been the king’s bed warmer ever since. His duties are very minimal, and during the day he’s free to come and go as he wishes, mostly strolling through the castle halls and wandering amongst the wood around it, always sure to be back before nightfall. Then he lounges about the king’s quarters, preparing and posing. Every evening, he changes into soft, thin robes and brushes out his long hair until it’s smooth as a river. When he hears the creak of a door, he rushes instantly for the bed, and he kneels down beside it. He’s never been specially instructed to bow at these times, but he does so anyway. He presses his palms flat against the cold floor and bends until his forehead’s nearly touching it, his hair splayed out around him. He breathes a hushed, reverent, “ _My king._ ”

Thranduil simply strolls past him, just as always. He hears the opening of oak doors and the rustling of fabric—the king placing down his crown and donning his own night robes. Meludir always wants to look for this but doesn’t dare. His king is incredibly handsome, more attractive than any man in all their kingdom and likely beyond. The mere anticipation makes Meludir tremble—he’ll be allowed to _sleep with his king._ He won’t be touched. He’ll rarely be spoken to. But he’ll lie on the same mattress, under the same sheets, drinking in the king’s deep fragrance and his quiet breathing. As the king prepares himself, he absently bids, “Rise.”

Meludir instantly obeys the command. He would stay on the floor all night if he were asked, but with no more instructions, he slips onto the side of the bed, just under the emerald sheets. He watches the king’s back, broad shoulders flexing, as he finishes folding his old robes. The new ones are much lighter than the ones he wears during the day, and they shimmer like starlight under the flicker of the candles. Finally, Thranduil sweeps his white-blond hair over his shoulders and turns, icy eyes barely noticing Meludir before they slip to the bed. Meludir dutifully peels the blankets back for his king. 

And he takes a deep breath, wondering if tonight will be when he summons the courage to ask what he always wants to. He fears if he ever does speak his mind, he’ll be relocated to another assignment. It wouldn’t be worth it. Yet he’s young, and still too impulsive for his own good, and his mouth gets away from him. “My king...”

Thranduil, already taking a seat on the mattress, glances languidly at him. Meludir becomes acutely aware that his left sleeve has fallen down his shoulder, wantonly exposing his collarbone and the top of his pale chest. Meludir takes the silence for permission to continue, licks his pink lips and murmurs quietly, shamefully, trying to stifle his hopeful smile, “If you would prefer, I... I could forgo my robes...” He can’t get anymore out. He bows his head quickly, golden-orange hair sliding down to hide his embarrassment. It’s too bold a statement, but he wishes to please his king so _very badly_ , and it seems the logical step after sharing a bed. He would be honoured to offer his body to Thranduil in whatever capacity Thranduil might like. But Thranduil doesn’t answer right away, merely regards him levelly. 

Then a hand reaches to the side of Meludir’s face, and he shivers. It cups his cheek. Thranduil’s long fingers slip back into his hair, and a tiny gasp escapes Meludir’s lips, his face flushing in pleasure. 

Thranduil’s grip turns into a fist in his hair. It turns Meludir towards the bed and forces him down, until he’s lying, shifted onto his stomach, with his face turned against the pillows. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he trusts his king not to hurt him, and he willingly goes where he’s laid. Then the king’s hands are on his biceps, running gracefully down his arms. Meludir wonders fleetingly if this is some sort of test. He surrenders, wanting to pass. When Thranduil’s hands reach Meludir’s wrists, they draw Meludir’s arms behind his back, pinning them against his tailbone. 

His hair is swept off him. Thranduil gathers it all up, running through it as though separating it to braid. Meludir has no delusions that his king will bestow him such honours. But he’s still surprised when that hair is twisted around his wrists, looped together, and pulled tight. He can’t see and can only feel the tug of it and the ghosts across his arms, but it feels as though Thranduil is tying knots: binding him with his own hair. 

When Thranduil is done, Meludir feels thoroughly restrained. But he doesn’t test the makeshift bonds, partially because he wants to show that he trusts his king implicitly and partially because he doesn’t want to tug at his scalp. He risks turning his head to face his king, but he says nothing and lies still on his stomach. If this is some form of punishment, it’s a strange one. Meludir tries to think of it as an experiment instead; perhaps Thranduil enjoys tying up his partners, and this is a simple way to see if Meludir would do more than simply lie naked with his king. 

Meludir would do _anything_ for his king. He watches through half lidded eyes as Thranduil observes him. Finally, a smirk twists its way onto Thranduil’s handsome features, and he nearly purrs, “You are forward, for a bed warmer. And you ask for danger, too. The recklessness of youth, I imagine. You are fortunate that dragging you to my dungeons for punishment would leave my bed too empty for my taste. So you will remain bound until you are forgiven by your master. Do you understand?”

Meludir nods his head against the pillow, murmuring without hesitation, “Yes, master.” Then his cheeks colour, and he wonders if he should correct himself to ‘my lord’ or ‘my king.’ He likes his idea of a sexual trial better, though he isn’t foolish enough to announce how eagerly he will pass any test of ‘danger.’ Thranduil seems to accept this answer. He reaches to the nightstand and takes hold of the nearest candle, drawing it close. With a hissed breath infused with the magic of a great elf, it blows out, and all the twinkling candles in the room follow with it. 

In the darkness, Thranduil settles back against the mattress. Meludir drinks in every subtle shift of his limbs and rustle of the pillow. When he goes still, Meludir is swamped with the familiar longing, the intense _desire to be consumed by his lord._

But as usual, he quells it down. He often has an easier time of it; he tends to curl up in bed into a tight little ball, but now he’s forced to sleep both on his stomach and with his arms behind him. He fears shifting too much lest he tug any hair from his skull; he’s no fan of pain, however small. It’s an awkward position.

Yet one he’s more than willing to suffer. He lingers awake far longer than usual, breathing in the tantalizing scent of _Thranduil._

And much, much later, when he’s finally beginning to drift to sleep, hands return to him. His hair is deftly untied, and he’s pulled into strong, powerful arms, turned onto his side, and his back is pressed against a broad chest. He gives in to dreams at last, already floating on clouds.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blooming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036297) by [pt_tucker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker)




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